Bakery Boys
by Dr.Kim-chan
Summary: L eats doughnuts, Mello spazzes, Matt is amused, and everyone else pops in for a bite to eat. Just another day at a bakery whose name is as eccentric as its employees. 12/14/08: Chap. 4 up in celebration of Mello's...late...b-day.
1. Mornings

Title: Bakery Boys

By: Dr. Kim-chan

Author's Note: I know, I know, bakery-related fics are nothing new in "Death Note", but this is more of an experiment with an idea I got from one of my reviewers, TheRecorder, while I was writing "Some Things Are Beyond Near". It was a comment I made in the story about the combination of three smells: Matt's cigarettes, Mello's chocolate, and L's overall sugar/strawberry/whipped cream combination, and she said "Bakery Boys". And I thought, "Hmm" (and also wondered for a brief while if Near has a particular scent)…and here we are!

Also, this will be my first time trying out an AU, though it's not a very strict AU. (Well, actually, I think I did an AU before, but that was a long time ago, when I was obsessed with Digimon). This is just Death Note…minus the actual Death Note, plus a bakery, odd character interactions and madness. Also, there'll be a bit of a theme; a baked good or sweet will ALWAYS be integrated into each chapter, and those sweets will give hints as to the personality/plot of the chapter. Good luck making the correlations! Mainly a collection of stand-alone-yet-related tales, there'll be humor, there'll be fluff, there'll be drama…but mostly there'll be baked goods.

First off, thanks for the inspiration for this story, TheRecorder. This is for you, and all those who loved baked goods and our favorite detective and his lovable protégés.

Read on!

* * *

When the morning came…when alarm clocks rang at around seven PM, and the rising sun towered over the city skyline and glared into everyone's windows, it meant different things to different people, particularly the four inhabitants of a second-floor apartment in a small corner of Tokyo.

To L, the morning was merely the extension of a day that had already begun precisely at midnight.

A self-confessed insomniac, he was already aware of the time that passed when the world plunged into the darkness of the night. A scant two or three hours of rest, and an endless supply of sugar would do the rest. At six AM he was up, dressed, and ready, stumbling downstairs to the first floor, where he owned a small bakery called L's.

No one knew what that single letter meant, not even their long-time customers, and it nearly drove some first-time customers mad, but it was hardly ever about the name. It was about the taste, and L's certainly delivered on that. The quality of the goods implied something about the owner: how he'd wanted to own a bakery for so long despite excelling in college in virtually every subject. He wasn't even much of an entrepreneur, let alone someone who made people comfortable, but he loved being in control of himself, and with the patronage of his "guardian", he got his wish a few years ago when he obtained the bakery.

Besides, college was years behind him, and so was trying to fit into society. L could be kind, but he could also be blunt, acerbic, an invader of personal space and enigmatic—often all at the same time. And as with him, nearly every kind of sweet could be found at L's, even those that didn't exist anywhere else. L prided himself on experimentation, almost always getting a good result every time, even if the commodity only had one or two die hard fans.

And like the origin of the bakery's name, his past was a great secret, some of it even to himself.

But none of those dark thoughts crossed his mind now. Crouched precariously on a stool behind the counter, he took stock of what needed to be replaced and reorganized in the glass displays (once in a while sneaking a doughnut to go along with the mug of dangerously saccharine coffee he made in the back room). His ears perked up behind an ever-frizzy mat of black hair, he waited for his two coworkers to wake up and face the morning with him.

Though, with these two, it was hardly ever a routine morning.

* * *

To Mello, mornings were absolute hell.

Cursing under his breath, he rolled over and glared at the alarm clock buried underneath wrinkled foil wrappers, misbehaving strands of blond hair further adding to his irritation.

In his first show of overt force for the day, he punched the button, silencing the alarm once and for all, but it still didn't make him feel any better. Just because it was now quiet didn't mean he was free to sleep in. He knew L was expecting him downstairs, on time, ready (or at least pretending to be ready) to perform cleaning duties. He also knew what would happen if he didn't—L would go in his room, climb up on the bed, loom over him, and stare him down for hours on end until Mello woke up to large black eyes boring down on him.

When Mello first came to the bakery, this creeped the hell out of him, and as much as he respected the older man, he never wanted a repeat of that incident again. Certainly L didn't want a repeat of the incident again; one broken nose was one too many.

He hated waking up so early, but if that was a sacrifice to pay to keep this new life and leave behind his old one, he was all too willing to slam his fist into an alarm clock.

Mello threw the covers off of him, revealing black boxers and a bare chest, and stormed over to his closet. Once he threw open the doors, a little of the emotion most would call "cheeriness" returned to the blond's face.

It was true that L's got its reputation by its goods, but its workers had bizarre tastes in fashion. When Mello started working here, rumors began popping up all over the neighborhood. _Did L's become a "host café"?_ They could tolerate L wearing the exact same thing every day (baggy jeans and a thin white sweatshirt), but a man who prided himself on leather, boots, and all things black was destined to turn heads, especially in a bakery, and especially if you had to wear a hairnet and a bandana most of the time (Mello's policy on hairnets: If he had to be forced to wear one, heads would roll).

It didn't take long to select his wardrobe for the day; the year was turning to a cool autumn, so a bit of restrictive clothing would be more tolerable.

Leather pants? Check.

Leather vest? Check.

Fingerless leather gloves? Check.

Ass-kicking boots? Check.

Rosary? Check and double check.

Fighting back another yawn, Mello grabbed an unwrapped bar of chocolate and noisily clomped out of his bedroom and downstairs.

Well, he would've, if something else hadn't caught his eye first.

* * *

To Matt, the morning was the end rather than the beginning.

Console at his side, controller laying haphazardly at the edge of the bed, empty cans of soda cluttering the floor, his body lay sprawled across the bed, a strong testament to yet another sleepless night leveling up already-powerful characters, testing cheat codes, exploring new worlds, and killing evolutionary rejects. He was even wearing the same clothes from last night.

The only thing Matt loved more than working at the bakery—and testing his luck by teasing Mello—were his video games. It had been a long-ingrained habit, long before Matt came to L's with four different consoles, not including his handhelds: a Nintendo DS, PSP, Game Boy Advanced, and a relic even Mello though he'd never see again, a Game Boy Color.

As with most days after a couple of years ago, Mello clearly remembered that day. Matt was hired/taken in shortly after Mello, and at first Mello truly believed they would end up killing each other, probably with the stainless steel mixer in the kitchen. As it turned out, the two had more in common than they thought. Matt, too, had a past he wanted to forget. Matt, too, had a certain degree of disdain for conventions. Mello's leather was a bit extreme, but furry vests, striped shirts, and a propensity towards wearing goggles without standing anywhere near a pool was completely out-of-place in a quaint bakery.

Also, Matt was very laid back and relatively reclusive, which puzzled Mello considering that he spent most of his time venting pixilated rage at aliens. His was a nature that fit being L's assistant in the kitchen. Mello, on the other hand, prided himself on being the face of the bakery…along with L, of course. L effortlessly split his time between both areas.

But what was probably the greatest paradox was that while Mello regularly cursed the sun to an early grave beyond the other horizon, Matt had more trouble getting up due to the all-nighters he pulled. Dare Mello even think…even _L _got more sleep than Matt did sometimes. L! He was amazed Matt wasn't developing dark pouches under his eyes.

Maybe that was why he wore the goggles.

Shaking the somewhat deep contemplation out of his mind, Mello strolled into his room, using what little compassion he had to not step on cables, aluminum cans, the occasional laptop (whatever the hell Matt did before to make that kind of money, he had three of them), and a gaggle of controllers. Even then, he was making a hell of a lot of noise, yet Matt was just that passed out not to wake up. Slowly he tiptoed up to Matt's side, with every bit of grace he had.

Perfect.

Lifting up a gloved hand, Mello delivered a well-placed smack to the redhead's…well, head.

It all happened in an instant; awkwardly long limbs flailed, controllers jumped off the bed, green eyes snapped open.

"Mel! What the—?" he protested.

"Gotta go down and open the bakery, dumbass."

Matt stared at him blearily, as if he'd said all that in Romanian, rubbing his eyes adorably like a sleepy child—which he pretty much was, despite the fact that he and Mello were only about a year apart.

"What time izzit?" Matt asked.

"What time do we usually get up to open the bakery?" Mello asked caustically.

"Um…"—at this point Matt was sitting up, more or less aware of the world—"...seven, right?"

"Bingo. Now freshen up; you look like one of those zombies in that one game you played last week."

At the mention of a video game reference, Matt perked up immediately, and he gave Mello one of his goofy grins, similar to the one he got when he unwrapped a new game he waited weeks for.

"Aw, _Silent Hill: Homecoming_!" Matt's grin shrunk a little and he shook his head. "Not as good as the originals, but when is skulking through a dark town filled with murderous humanoid beasts not awesome? And they're not zombies, Mel, they're a cult bent on preserving their disturbing little secrets."

Mello waved his hands. "Whatever."

The leather-garbed young man turned and left the room, leaving Matt to rub his eyes some more and flop back down onto the bed.

* * *

L had given it an 87% chance, and the odds worked in his favor: Mello did indeed come down first.

"Mornin', L," Mello muttered. He dove under the counter briefly, coming back up with a bucket, a rag, and a bottle of disinfectant and heading for the sink.

"Good morning, Mello," L replied tonelessly, holding up receipts in front of his face with nothing but his thumbs and index fingers. "I expect Matt will be a little late coming down this morning. I saw him playing _Halo 4_ last night with quite a bit of intensity."

"Don't worry. I woke him up a few minutes ago."

L set down the receipts and shot Mello a wary glance. He knew all too well what Mello's idea of a wake-up call was; he only hoped Matt didn't have a concussion afterward.

Deciding to leave the matter alone, L went over the rest of the receipts in record time before carefully stacking them up and carrying them to the back room.

Mello growled as the fury of his wet rag moved from the main counter top to the glass displays. He just wiped these after closing time yesterday; how did they get _more _fingerprints on them?

Eyeing the doughnut section, his eyebrow raised.

"L, we had five strawberry crumb doughnuts up here yesterday. They're all gone now."

"Hm?"

Mello sighed. He knew L was playing innocent.

"You ate the rest of the doughnuts, didn't you?"

"Not all of them," L said with a bit of indignity in his voice. "We still have plenty of caramel crème, the glazed, plain, chocolate, lemon-frosted…though we are running low on the jam-filled ones—"

"I'm surprised we even sell anything!" Mello grumbled, throwing his rag into the bucket with a 'plop'. "You keep eating half the inventory before we open!"

"I'm insulted, Mello; your assumptions are rather rash. We have more doughnuts here in the back."

"How many more?"

"…Four."

"_L!_"

"You really must stop being so dramatic. Four should be more than adequate. They're not our top seller, anyway. And if it so happens that the demand rises today, Matt and I can always make some more," L said, coming out with the tray carrying the four precious remaining doughnuts…

…Wait. Make that three.

Seeing this shameless act of gluttony, in sheer exasperation, Mello knocked his head against the glass, cursing again when he saw the large mark he left on the recently cleaned surface. Adding insult to injury, Matt came down just in time to see this act of sabotage and snorted loudly.

"Make sure you get it extra clean, Mel!" Matt joked, snatching his apron from the rack. Mello growled and flicked droplets of dirty water at him, which only provided Matt with more ammo when he pointed out that now, on top of the forehead mark, Mello had to wipe up all the water he spilled.

Lazily, L flipped the two remaining switches as Mello abandoned his rags to chase Matt into the kitchen. As the dining area and the glass displays under the counter brightened, he inwardly shook his head as he flipped the sign hanging on the door from "Closed" to "Open".

Mornings may have meant different things to different people, but in the grand scheme of things, it was merely routine at L's.

(End)


	2. Rookie's First Mission

Title: Bakery Boys

By: Dr. Kim-chan

Author's Note: I already had this second part in mind while I was writing the first part, and I giggled every time I thought of it. I think it sets the tone for the rest of the story nicely. Think of the first part as more of a prologue.

Relating to nothing in particular, if this fic had a theme song, it'd definitely be "Jolly Jolly", the theme song to the anime Red Garden. For being such a crazy, depressing show, that song's so darn upbeat…

Luna Moonsurf: Thanks for the review; same goes for your sister! Actually, it won't all be humor, which is why I stuck this in the 'General' category. Yay for 'General'! (ahem) Anyway, yeah, but do prepare for the story to take dark corners at times…real dark corners…

Oh yeah, and the disclaimer! I do not own Death Note in any shape or form. Thank Ohba and Obata for that; otherwise we wouldn't be here right now.

* * *

If luck was an actual person in the flesh, with the ability to pick and choose who it could torment and then pick right back up again, chances are one of his frequent targets was Touta Matsuda.

After years of study, training, and a grueling examination process, he had finally been given the right to call himself an officer of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police no more than a couple of years ago. But in the gritty world of law enforcement, where it often took no more than a minute on the street to garner the equivalent of five years' worth of life experience, a little over two years was no more than a couple of months; he was still considered by most in his department as a rookie.

Not that he blamed them. Aside from his unusually high scores in marksmanship, his scores weren't entirely remarkable—just enough to be considered competent. His coworkers could say this for him, though; he had determination, something to prove. The only problem was that his exuberance often resulted in careless mistakes.

"_You have to learn to crawl before you walk_," he remembered Aizawa telling him.

Aizawa, his partner, definitely had it together in comparison to Matsuda, even right down to their personal lives. While Matsuda was making it out as a bachelor, Aizawa already had a wife and two kids. At first Matsuda hadn't been sure if this was a bad or good thing; if nothing else, police work was highly unpredictable, and if something ever happened to him…

The question, when it came out at the time, Matsuda thought had been relatively harmless, but Aizawa looked like he would have liked nothing better than to punch him in the nose and leave him unconscious in the squad car.

After the older policeman had calmed down, though, Matsuda got a perplexing answer.

"_That's exactly why I'm glad I'm married. Think about it; if I wasn't a policeman, and something happened to my family, I'd want somebody out there who'd be up off their ass doing their job. Look, Matsuda, if you don't have anything for which you're willing to sacrifice, no matter how many years you got under your belt, you can't be a real policeman…_"

Something to sacrifice…

Matsuda always thought it'd been the other way around, that being single meant that one had nothing left to lose. Apparently he still had a lot to learn.

And that was exactly why he was hurrying to work at around eight in the morning, more than likely late again.

Thirteen blocks to the nearest train station…why did he have to live so far away from headquarters? And without a car, even?

Suddenly, in the midst of his awkward running, Matsuda stopped in his tracks.

And groaned.

Right. He promised he'd bring in the morning doughnuts today. But he didn't know any nearby bakeries…

In his panic, he started turning random corners, only getting himself even more lost, scouring shop fronts and display windows, all while trying to remember the preferences of everyone who shared space with him in his office—which, fortunately for his faulty memory, didn't consist of many people.

"Let's see…Mogi likes powdered…I think…um, Ide likes coconut, Ukita likes cinnamon, and the Chief likes plain...or was it cinnamon, too? Aizawa said some specialty bakery made a strawberry crumb doughnut, but where am I gonna find—oof!"

Matsuda's frantic thoughts were cut short when he bumped into something hard and fell over. At the pace he was walking, he wasn't surprised to see that the other person had fallen over as well. Unhurt, hopefully.

"I'm so sorry! Ohhh…I wasn't watching where I was going! Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Don't worry about it."

It took Matsuda a moment to fully register who he was talking to, and the other person wasn't surprised to see the detective's expression gradually warp into one of confusion.

It _was _rather chilly outside, on account of the season, but it still didn't justify the patchwork-like fur lining on the outside of the young man's tan vest. Underneath was a long-sleeved striped shirt, paired with jeans with hemlines going nowhere in particular, leather gloves, and boots Matsuda had only seen on military personnel. Strapped to his head were orange tinted goggles, transforming his verdant eyes into a swampy brownish-green. A disappointed look lingered on his face, but that was only because he apparently dropped his cigarette.

"Got an extra cigarette?"

"Sorry, I don't smoke."

The goggled boy squinted, taking a closer look at Matsuda's gloomy face.

"Why're you in such a hurry, anyway?"

"Oh. I'm late for work, but I just remembered that I promised to bring in doughnuts. Ohhh…now I'll be even later…hey, you wouldn't happen to know where the nearest bakery is, do you?"

The redhead abruptly started taking rapid breaths before finally breaking out into loud laughter. Matsuda's face crumpled up further, already used to people laughing at him.

After a couple of minutes, the redhead coughed, trying to quell his giggles.

"Sorry, sorry. Just…look behind you."

Matsuda turned around to follow Matt's pointing finger and promptly turned red. Though the logo of the establishment—an Old English-font 'L' with a strawberry serving as the apostrophe between the larger letter and a lower-case 'S'—didn't tell him much, from what he could see inside, it was definitely a bakery.

"Welcome to L's. Name's Matt," he said. "I was out here on a little break when we collided."

"Sorry," Matsuda muttered again.

"Stop worrying about it," Matt said. "Actually, now that I think about it, the strawberry crumb doughnuts should be warmed up by now—gah!"

Matt nearly collided again—this time with the front door—as Matsuda suddenly…well, the only way he could describe it was with an _otaku _-like term: glomping.

"You're the bakery Aizawa was talking about!" he shouted. "I didn't know you were so close to my apartment! This is great!"

"…Do you usually hug people you've only met two minutes ago?"

Matsuda blushed again and let go, apologizing profusely, inadvertently discovering that Matt's vest was softer than it looked. It didn't help matters that inside, he spotted a blond boy about Matt's age staring—no, _glaring_ back at him from behind the register. Matt pushed himself off the door before walking inside, initiating the cheery jingle of a bell. Matsuda sighed, mostly in relief, as he followed him inside.

Maybe his luck was turning around, after all.

* * *

Mogi and Ide stared at the contents of one of the boxes blankly.

"Thank you for your efforts, Matsuda, but…I prefer crullers," Mogi said quietly.

"And I'm allergic to coconut!" Ide shouted.

Matsuda knocked his head against his desk, groaning.

...On second thought, maybe he wasn't so lucky.

(End)


	3. Last Night a Baker Saved My Life

Title: Bakery Boys

By: Dr. Kim-chan

Author's Notes: Holy frijoles! Five reviews and four Story Alerts already? You guys sure know how to make a girl feel special…

And Mello would like to clarify that he wears the (MANLY) bandana only to cover the hairnet.

Anyway, I would've had this up sooner, but this was a bit of a challenge, considering both the switch in mood and the character choice. Oh, and PLEASE feel free to tell me who you'd like to see as a customer next (aside from Near and Light; I have special plans for them…), or what you'd like L, Mello, and Matt to do when they don't have any!

And props to the one who knows where I got the title of this chapter from!

Disclaimer: This fic is brought to you by the letter L…and O, for Obata/Ohba.

* * *

Hers was a life dictated by expectations.

_You have a duty to uphold_, they told her. _You're a shining example of what girls should be, what every man wants. You're Misa Amane—no, Misa-Misa! Model, actress, happiness and beauty personified. You should always be happy, always be perfect._

At first she didn't find any harm in listening. After all, this had been her dream since childhood. She strove to set the precedent for young women everywhere, put flavored lip-gloss on every high school girl's lips, sweep emotions to their climax with the romantic exploits of the heroine she portrayed in her movies. Her ambitions were further fueled by the fact that, for the most part, she had nothing else left to lose. She had no parents to return to with her success; even then, it seemed the media and her were destined to co-exist. The murders had been covered widely, the suspect unknown to the public to this day. Sure, _she _had seen his face, but concrete proof motivated the justice system, not emotions and vague facial descriptions.

But that was all the more reason to be happy, right? She had to put the past behind her, go for the future! Developing head shots with her friend, amassing her earnings, putting her best (pedicure-perfected) foot forward…with nothing else, she made a name for herself and moved to Tokyo, where her fame only got stronger.

She came to accept this, came to accept everyone's willingness to cater to her, came to accept the new persona of "Misa-Misa". If that was to be her duty in life, so be it.

Then the inevitable happened.

After landing what many were regarding as two of the biggest deals of her career—a commercial for the powerful corporation Yotsuba and another lead in a romantic movie—now the media considered her important enough to examine her personal life. Now, this wouldn't have mattered as much to her; unless someone was particularly crafty, one couldn't be much of a celebrity without this cost, and at the very least someone was paying attention to her.

But for someone who never took the time to examine her own life, this was fatal.

Yes, "Misa-Misa" was perfect and happy, but was _Misa Amane_ perfect and happy?

In front of a camera, she had wonderful, tragic romances, but every evening she returned to her apartment alone, no love or tragedy to claim for her own. _Well, no problem_, she thought. _I'm Misa-Misa; I can find a boyfriend._

But in this was another harmful truth: Misa-Misa both excited and repulsed. While she ran rampant in fantasies, to be with someone so beautiful, so successful, was a crushing blow to men's confidence. Besides, her publicist reveled in telling her every day in a reprimanding tone, she didn't have time for love. She was too busy being Misa-Misa.

Again, she didn't think to question, but she didn't have to. Secretly she longed for someone to come home to, someone to bring along for the occasional impulsive trip to the ice cream parlor, someone to say, "Oh, Misa, you look good even _without _all that makeup." Slowly this longing turned to sadness, then resentment, then missed rehearsals and photoshoots.

Then she made another realization: Misa-Misa could only be happy if she made others happy…only to put it in those words was too kind. They pushed, they called, they shoved, they lectured, they screamed, they criticized, they questioned. Misa-Misa can't be sad, they said. She's supposed to make others happy. This was our agreement, and you can't escape. And if you try to…

But she made the decision for them.

That evening, she left her apartment. She turned off all her cell phones.

She wrote a suicide note.

Only, at the time she wrote it, she wasn't sure exactly which method to go about it. She preferred falling from a building; she had to do it once in a movie—but then, that had been a stunt. This time, there would be only one take, a fabulous last shot of her tumbling to the pavement below—her best act yet.

Misa shoved a wet pigtail off her forehead and crossed the next intersection. For a minute, she allowed herself to be amazed. Maybe it was the rain that was hurrying everyone along, the umbrellas that obscured their vision, or even the impossibility that Misa-Misa would let the rain dampen her pristine image, but no one noticed her.

For once, that was a comfort.

A warm mixture of neon and fluorescent lighting pouring out from shops that still had yet to close glowed eerily in the damp streets and sidewalks. Her eyes barely looked up except to scout out any potential buildings from which to tumble to her untimely death. She looked everywhere except straight ahead…

So she certainly didn't expect what felt like a light punch in the stomach.

"Ow!" Misa protested, her pigtails shaking slightly with anger, but then she discovered what had hit her.

Someone was holding out an umbrella.

Perplexed, her gaze followed upwards, from the umbrella to a lanky arm, and finally to the person holding the umbrella.

Her first impression wasn't exactly a flattering one, but she was so taken aback at the gesture of kindness that she didn't say anything. He looked a bit older than her, his messy black hair slicked back slightly from the rain. He didn't have a raincoat or any other means of protection—just a white sweatshirt and baggy jeans. On his feet were ragged tennis shoes, but no socks; his feet were probably soaked. He wasn't half as wet as her, but he was getting there quickly.

The shoes or his kind gesture weren't even the most interesting things about him. His eyes were large, deep and black, dark bags under his eyelids. It felt like they could see _through _her rather than _at _her.

He blinked, then cocked his head, as if _she _was the one acting strange.

"Are you going to take the umbrella?" he asked.

"Oh…no…I don't need it," Misa declined.

He cocked his head again, unfurled the umbrella and held it above his head.

"I suppose you don't. You're already quite soaked…but I do suggest you go home, before you're stricken with a serious bout of influenza."

This time Misa was the one to blink. Despite his disheveled appearance, he had a very sophisticated way of speaking.

"…Don't you have a home to go to?" she asked—well, more like blurted out. Huge vocabulary aside, the strange man still hadn't given her any reason not to suspect him of being a hobo.

"I was just returning from a cake shop up the street, actually," he said, starting to walk away. His other hand automatically lifted, revealing a plastic bag held gingerly between three fingers. "Personally I found it unnecessary, given that I live above a bakery that I own and have invested in, but Mello's been rather strict with me lately…"

His back continued to retreat, and before she could stop herself, she found herself following him. There was something about him that appealed to her. An attraction? Sheer curiosity?

Her stomach rumbled.

The man stopped and turned his head slightly.

"If you like, you're welcome to join me. I'm not quite hungry at the moment, so I don't believe I'll finish it by myself…of course, pardon me if I do."

Misa's sprinting slowed down to a walk, and she blushed.

"I don't even know who you are," she protested, not even bothering to thank him.

"And yet you're following me."

She puffed her cheeks out in anger, but she couldn't come up with a good excuse. He continued walking again, and she continued to follow. After they walked four blocks, the two strangers reached their destination. Misa glanced up (but only briefly, so she wouldn't get water in her eyes), marveling at the Old English 'L', the strawberry apostrophe, and the smaller 'S'.

L stopped right in front of the door, then turned around.

"Technically, this is my house, so I guess we should introduce ourselves to each other. You may call me L."

"Just L?" she asked.

L nodded. "And you?"

"Misa Amane."

L bent his next at a weird angle again, and Misa braced herself for the inevitable gushing-over.

However, what L said next completely shocked her.

"I thought you looked familiar. You look rather sad in person."

Misa lowered her head.

"Are you surprised?" she asked, making it sound more defiant than she meant to.

L tapped his chin, seemingly in deep thought, but it didn't take him long to give his answer.

"Not really. To be honest, it's a bit comforting."

"Wha—why?"

"Don't misunderstand. Certainly it's never pleasant to feel sad, but no one can ever be happy all the time. If you're never sad, then how are you sure you feel happy?"

Misa's face scrunched up.

"But being happy makes others feel happy! And if you're happy, don't others feel happy?"

"Well, no one likes to feel sad, but usually it is no one else's business anyway. And if you compare your fanbase with the overall population of the world, it's really impossible to make _everyone _happy. Not even your fans are happy all the time. I believe it was Sophocles who said, 'One's own escape from troubles makes one glad; but bringing friends to trouble is hard grief'."

Without knowing it, Misa took a leaf from L's book and cocked her head in confusion, pigtails swaying.

"It's like cake."

"What?"

L nodded sagely, despite the fact that he was using a very odd metaphor.

"When you bake a cake, you have to be very careful with measuring the ingredients. Not too much, not too little, and you need all of them. With humans, life is composed of all emotions, and too much of one is very detrimental to one's mental state and health."

Suddenly, he thrust the plastic bag containing the box of cake towards her. "If the baker who made this cake put their entire gallon of frosting on it, would you eat it?"

Misa shuddered and shook her head.

"I wouldn't, either. A half-gallon at most, but any more than that would be ridiculous. He'd need to make more cake."

L turned around and pushed in the door.

"But let us leave philosophy for another time. Whether sad or hungry, cake is a good thing."

Misa followed him inside, her mind overwhelmed with what he said. How could this poorly dressed man know so much? Even now, some of the things he said still weren't quite registering, but she knew this; she felt a little better, having almost completely forgotten what she came into the city for in the first place.

And, there was cake.

* * *

Misa went home later that night…not Misa-Misa, but Misa Amane.

She tore up the suicide note, she took a warm bath, changed into one of her many nightgowns.

She placed a business card on her dresser—a tiny square of paper with the address and phone number of L's Bakery printed on it.

She smiled—a small, true smile—and went to bed.

(End)


	4. Birthday Boys and Motorcycle Mania

Title: Bakery Boys

By: Dr. Kim-chan

Author's Note: Happy VERY late Thanksgiving, everyone, and an early Christmas! Of course it should be obvious what I'm thankful for—you guys reading my stories and giving me all your encouragement! (smile) That's also my imminent Christmas present, I hope. Sorry for the delay; I have two other fics being worked on right now: "Photophobia" and "Ronin Note". Check 'em out if you want.

Anyway, I've heard your requests! Someone wanted more Mello/Matt, and someone else wanted more "obscure" characters. And after much deliberation (and realizing that a certain character's birthday came up recently) I said, "Why not both?" So here ya go! (And keep the requests flowing; they're pretty much the backbone of this fic.)

By the way, spot the inspiration for another nickname you gave me, TheRecorder!

* * *

He really shouldn't have expected anything more, Mello kept thinking to himself.

He tended to have relatively modest celebrations whenever his birthday rolled around. The day would've probably consisted of going out to another club with Matt or cause some other kind of ruckus in the city, followed by coming back home to a cake specially made by L (who then would inevitably and unwittingly eat half of it), and the next day Mello could strut around another year older.

But _this_…

No one said anything today. Not even Matt, who liked to kid with Mello that every birthday meant he would soon become a leather-garbed geezer waving around a gun, and wouldn't _that _scare children.

He didn't wake up excited, but he sure as hell expected something more from Matt than a groggy, uninterested "Oh, hi, Mel. L's been waiting for you downstairs", followed by the redhead collapsing into his mattress again in a heap.

Well, Mello was willing to shake that off. Whatever game he played yesterday must have been particularly engrossing, and once he shook himself out of his coma and realized his mistake, vengeance and presents would be his.

Smirking at the thought of Matt begging him for forgiveness bolstered his mood a little as he dressed, as did the thought of L. It was never clear whether L had any emotional attachment to them, but at the very least he had the memory of a computer. Surely he would give some sort of congratulatory remark.

Mello clomped down the stairs in his boots and was immediately met with the sight of L standing behind the counter with a receipt and three large boxes with the bakery's insignia stamped on top. The blond's spirit soared.

"Good morning, Mello. Oh, don't put on your apron just yet."

_Do I get the day off?_, Mello thought, shocked. This was a gracious gesture, even for him…

"I need you to make a delivery."

Mello scowled. Well, that didn't last long.

"Yotsuba called and placed an order. You know where it is, right?"

"Yeah."

"Good. They already told their security personnel on the first floor that they're expecting someone from L's Bakery, so you shouldn't have any problem getting in. They'll tell you which floor to go to from there," L instructed.

Mello sighed deeply and grabbed his red fur-lined coat from the rack, then stomped through the kitchen towards the back door. Oblivious to the blond's bad mood, L picked up the boxes, gingerly held the receipt with his lips, and followed him out.

The alley between L's Bakery and the one next door was unique in Tokyo in that it was big enough to hold a car, a motorcycle, and a Dumpster, but nothing much roomier than that. The car, a dark red hard-top convertible, was Matt's "baby", known as the Strawberry Mobile—certainly it was the same color as the small, seeded fruit, but Matt felt it proper since it was the "official" delivery car for the bakery, though sometimes customers had second thoughts when they saw how rundown it was. Even L, who found little to complain about in life, always unleashed a lecture on Matt about the cigarette stench on the rare occasions he had to drive it.

The second vehicle (the black motorcycle) Mello coveted as his personal property, but L ordered a tiny trailer to be attached to the back in case of multiple deliveries. This worked out both ways, since one of Matt's biggest fears was the speed-crazy Mello driving his car, but in a strange, masochistic reversal, one of Matt's favorite things to do was to sit behind Mello on the motorcycle. On nights when they really felt wild, they'd squeeze onto the narrow seat and race around Tokyo as fast as the speedometer would go, the whole night a blur.

But today was a delivery, business as usual, on his birthday.

If he wasn't so pissed, he'd almost be depressed.

L loaded the boxes into the trailer and shut the latch, double checking the attachment mechanism to ensure that none of the boxes would be lost amid morning traffic, then handed Mello the receipt.

"They already paid with their account; just give them the receipt as proof of their purchase."

Grumbling, Mello stuffed the receipt in his pocket and took out the key from the other pocket, revved up the ignition, and slowly crawled out of the alley before turning on a dime and blasting off down the road. Chewing his thumb, L watched him disappear before turning back into the kitchen.

In the threshold leading out to the front counter of the bakery stood Matt, fully awake and alert.

"He seemed rather upset as he left, and there's a 91 percent chance he'll be even angrier when he returns," L mumbled. "I hope our plan works."

"How are we gonna get everything prepared in time, though?" Matt asked. "Yeah, Yotsuba's all the way on the other side of town, but the way he drives, it won't take him that long to get back."

"You'd be surprised at how time restrictions can actually bring out the best in a person's creativity, but you're right, we should start right away. If you'll take out the chocolate cupcakes, I'll take out a new canister of chocolate mousse from the freezer, and make a couple more calls…"

* * *

It was probably Yotsuba's fault they ordered so early in the morning, but traffic was terrible, even with Japan's efficient public transportation system. Usually Mello would've been able to cut through, but with the trailer behind him, he had to wait patiently like the rest of the commuters.

And so, what would've been a twenty-five minute trip turned into nearly fifty minutes of hell, and he reached Yotsuba headquarters in a worse mood than he had when he left.

The security attendant didn't help matters, either, but any other person would have sympathized with him. His superiors said to expect a deliveryman from a local bakery, and about an hour later there was a bad-tempered, leather-clad blond in his face demanding to be let into the building. If he hadn't been holding boxes that distinctly smelled of doughnuts, the security attendant would've probably tackled him right then and there.

Now he was in an elevator (mercifully by himself), headed to a boardroom, with the vague instruction from the security attendant to "talk to a Mr. Namikawa".

The bell dinged, and Mello stepped out, showing off his coordination skills as he wandered through the halls with three boxes in hand.

"That bastard never did tell me where the boardroom was. Like I've worked here before!" Mello berated under his breath.

"I take it you're the one from L's."

A smooth voice cut through Mello's raging thoughts. Whirling around, he saw a dark-haired man who looked way younger than he actually was. Two identical locks of hair trailed down his forehead, the rest flowing behind him to the nape of his neck. His immaculate three-piece suit and tie practically screamed 'important executive'.

"Hey, do you know where this Namikawa guy is?" Mello asked, not even bothering with politeness.

The man smiled broadly.

"I'm Namikawa. If you'll please follow me."

Curling the fingers of one hand, he motioned to Mello and walked away without another word. Still seething, Mello decided that he was too close to going back home to make his situation worse. He may have been hotheaded, but he was also reasonable.

* * *

"_Where the hell is my motorcycle?_" Mello screamed.

Where he had parked his motorcycle a few minutes ago, it was now gone. For some reason, theft immediately jumped to mind, but he wasn't exactly sure who would want it. When he obtained it a couple of years ago, it had already had quite some miles on it. One of its problems was its braking, which only made Matt's joyrides with Mello all the more potentially deadly, and was responsible for the partial wearing down of the soles of Mello's boots. It may have been old, but it was Mello's.

And Mello demanded to know where it was.

Right now the security guard was distraught. He thought he'd seen the last (and the worst) of this insane young man.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I wasn't here when your motorcycle was taken; I was called to the surveillance room to check up on last night's footage."

"Some guard you are!" Mello roared, but stepped away immediately. The last thing he needed today was to be thrown in jail for assaulting a security guard. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his cell, punching in Matt's number.

"…_I'm sorry, but you just missed the Mail-man. Gimme your name and number, and I'll try to redeliver your letters._"

Mello hung up, grit his teeth, then punched in L's number.

"_You've reached L's voicemail. I'm sorry I'm not available at the moment, but please leave me all pertinent contact information, and I'll return your call at a time that's convenient to me._"

He hung up.

"…Screw it. I'll just walk."

* * *

He was no less than three-quarters of the way from the bakery when he came across it.

The straw that broke the camel's back, the final injustice, the edge off of which he needed to be pushed in order to make this day a complete and utter hell.

Matt was strolling up next to him.

_On his motorcycle._

Granted the little trailer wasn't attached to it anymore, but it was his motorcycle nonetheless.

For the first minute, all Mello could do was stand there in shock. First off, he didn't know Matt _could _ride a motorcycle, and secondly, he thought someone had stolen it.

"Hey, Mel. Looking for this?"

"…Yes, Matt. I was looking for it. I was hoping I wouldn't have to _walk _an hour back to the bakery."

No foul language, an eerily calm voice, biting sarcasm…Mello was pissed all right, Matt reckoned. And this was only Stage Two. Rarely anyone lived to see Stage Three.

But the plan was almost finished, and it had to be perfectly executed to the end.

Even if it meant his life.

"I guess you want a ride, then."

"No, I think I _want _my feet to blister…_yes_, I want a ride! It's my damn motorcycle!" Mello shouted.

"What's the magic word?" Matt taunted.

Mello took a sharp intake of breath, and Matt smirked. First sign of an imminent eruption.

"Matt, get off _my _motorcycle before I take your goggles and shove them so far up your ass you'll never get a perfect score on Wii Fit again."

"Well, if that's how you're gonna ask…"

The engine exploded in a cloud of exhaust, and suddenly the redhead was roaring off into the distance.

"..._you'll have to catch me!_" Matt yelled.

Three…two…one…

"_MAIL!_"

Mello's voice reverberated throughout the quaint Tokyo suburb, and then every pedestrian who happened to be on the right side of that particular road that day found themselves terrorized for a few harrowing seconds by a blond charging past them with all the fury of a stampeding bull on the dusty streets of Pamplona.

Matt actually wasn't going that fast, but he was smart enough to keep a safe enough distance between him and Mello that he wouldn't suddenly find himself hurled off the motorcycle and colliding with the pavement.

The back of L's Bakery appeared on the horizon. They were almost there…

Almost there…

"_GET BACK HERE, MAIL!_"

In a deft twist of the handlebars that would've been otherwise impressive if he wasn't running to save his life, Matt turned the corner into the alley where his car was. Hurriedly he cut the engine and jumped off, but he wasn't safe yet.

He had to get to the door…

He had to…

Before his fingertips grazed the doorknob, a hundred and fourteen pounds of angry Mello tackled him to the pavement.

"_L! HELP ME!_"

"_L WON'T SAVE YOU THIS TIME!_"

"_L!_"

To Matt's enormous relief, the door swung open to reveal the pale, skinny genius. What immediately beheld his eyes was a mass of leather, furry vest, boots, goggles, and bruises.

He chewed his thumb patiently and sighed.

"I told you this plan would be ruinous to your health, Matt."

Matt could only gasp in response. Mello blinked again, then released his hands from Matt's throat when he heard the word 'plan' in L's sentence.

"Plan? What plan? You were in on this, too?"

"If you'll promise not to commit first-degree murder, then follow me around the front. All will be explained then."

Mello got up to his feet, dragging an exhausted Matt along with him, his rage starting to fade.

And then it vanished completely.

Leaning on the front display window, with a garish red bow on the seat, was a brand-new, blood-red motorcycle. A single strawberry, an ornate cross, and the name "Mello" etched in Gothic lettering made up the custom detailing on the paint job.

"Yotsuba never placed an order for doughnuts," L began, taking advantage of Mello's temporary loss for words. "Mr. Namikawa is a former acquaintance of mine, and I called him so that we could fabricate the delivery. Shortly after you left, I called Watari, who picked up Matt from here, dropped off the present we ordered, and followed you the whole way there. When you entered the building, Watari dropped Matt off, and he made off with your motorcycle."

"The security guard was in on it, too," Matt wheezed. "I told him it was a surprise and not to say anything."

"Apparently, Matt's plan wasn't merely to distract you. He believed that by making you angry, he could make you oblivious to what we were up to. Since we were also short on time, we made your cake a tower of decorated cupcakes instead," L added. "So, all that notwithstanding…happy birthday, Mello."

Mello closed his eyes, exhaled, turned around and smirked, which made Matt sweat.

"Um…happy birthday?" Matt squeaked out, hands up in defense.

Before anyone could blink, the blond punched Matt in the gut. Without breaking a sweat, he then whirled around and punched L in the arm before he could take his thumb out of his mouth.

Now perfectly calm, he walked up to his new motorcycle, kicked up the stand, and walked it around to the back.

"Thank you, L. Thank you, Matt."

"No problem," both of them groaned.

Yes, he really shouldn't have expected anything more from them.

(End)


End file.
